


The Hostage

by d_aia



Series: What If [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Diplomacy, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 19:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18373034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_aia/pseuds/d_aia
Summary: What if Robb has an idea regarding the Freys and meeting Talisa doesn’t end up being that momentous? How would Tywin react? What would change?





	The Hostage

“What does that mean?” Tywin mumbles as he reads the letter. _What does that_ mean _?_ “How would it work?”

“My lord?” the girl asks.

Tywin has forgotten that she is even there.

_Dangerous._

“I was thinking aloud,” Tywin dismisses her. “I’m cold.”

The girl studies him with perceptive eyes. “I’ll bring some more wood for the fire.”

Waiting until she leaves the room, Tywin reads that part of the letter again.

_The Wolf instead declared his Twin girl Queen for as long as he is King. It is uncertain whether he will also marry her, but they would rule together. Her family has already started infighting. No help will come from that quarter so I assume no more ravens either._

No, Tywin still doesn’t understand how that would work.

*

Tywin lost.

He lost. _He_ lost. He _lost._

_Tywin lost._

*

But Tywin’s not beaten. He’s had to deal with bigger threats than a Young Wolf with a head for unexpected strategies, so he’ll wait, listen, observe, and when the right time comes, he’ll pounce. _Hear me roar_ , indeed. In the meantime, he invites Stark to a feast, right outside the field of battle. There, Tywin will accept and admit his—momentary—surrender, and there he will begin plotting.

*

They all sit down at the feast. Just two places for the Stark King with his Frey Queen. On his side, Tywin sits alone. There are his Bannermen around him, just like they are on the other side. Also, his mother, but none of the Freys.

The Freys were fools. A family that didn’t manage to hold it together, that dragged themselves down until no one remained but the Queen, her sisters, and her nieces. What’s more, they took down the Boltons with them, unraveling plans left and right. They aren’t castles or a bridge or roads—they are feral dogs that go at each other at the smallest reason.

After the Greyjoy boy changed his mind, that was it. All his plans were gone. Lady Luck, herself, shitted on them. To compare, all of Stark’s strategies were demeaning and risky and no Lord would ever agree with such nonsense, but they were unexpected and, ultimately, successful. So here they were.

“Let us eat,” Tywin invites.

Stark doesn’t move. “Why?”

“Guest right?” Tywin asks with a smile hidden in the corner of his lips.

“The North won the fight,” Frey says quietly but her implication is easily understood.

“I’ll surrender,” Tywin tells her and he’s certain it sounded more as a threat by the bristling of the Northern Lords. “But why should we not eat at the same time? Drink in your honor?”

“Our men are hungry and thirsty,” Frey says in that calm, almost absent manner of hers that Tywin begins to understand is how she usually is. She doesn’t meet his eyes and _yet_. Tywin understands perfectly well the implied accusation. It was one of the reasons why he held this get together as he did—eat in front of the hungry troops or don’t. He expected this and he wants to see their reaction: lose their standing with the men or be fearful of the men and lose the Lords.   _Yet_ she hasn’t made accused him of anything, not in any way that he could answer, and she had taken no sides.

“Fine, wine then, for the Lords… and Ladies. We have enough,” Tywin concedes. He does it easily since he learned something useful. “After negotiations are done, the first thing I offer you is a warm meal for the troops.”

Stark and Frey exchange looks and they both nod. A team, then. Or, at least, the appearance of one.

_Good, good._

The girl steps forward to serve him and Stark looks at her. He frowns. With a move, he slides slightly to the left, away from Frey, and his hand disappears briefly down the table. She looks at him and away with uncertainty.

Did he just…? Why? What just happened? How could Tywin take advantage of it?

Stark, however, looks at Frey with some sort of cue because without turning towards Stark she begins, “The North is independent. You are not King. We understand.”

General truths, choppy, almost careless delivery, done by a woman—it’s odd and startling to hear that sort of statement and from whom. However, it’s also something Tywin has learned to expect not the actions, precisely, but to be caught unawares. He can’t tell how much she participates, if at all, but it certainly fits in one tactic.

Frey opens her mouth again and the few whispers die down to be able to hear her, “The King had two sisters.” Her eyes widen momentarily and her eyes avert to her hands. Then she looks at Stark and briefly back at her hands.

But this is one thing that Tywin _can_ insist upon. “As far as I’m aware of, yes, he had two sisters.”

There’s chuckling around the table and Tywin smirks.

“Has he still?” Frey asks, unruffled, and the men settle down guiltily. In fact, they settle down like scolded children. It’s incredible.

“Possibly,” is all Tywin can say.

“Sansa Stark,” Frey says.

Tywin doesn’t say anything and surprisingly Frey doesn’t either. They wait. And wait. She eventually gets a piece of cloth from a maiden and she starts working on her embroidery. They wait some more.

He realizes all of a sudden he only played this game with fiery women. There wasn’t much occasion for him to spend time with calm women and he’s not in this position often enough to expect it. They can be talked over  _if_ he has the power. He doesn’t in this case and Stark has—possibly unknowingly; no, this happened too many times—chosen the perfect way, perfect person to outwit Tywin once again.

Stark, Tywin knows, won’t budge. Not when he made the conscious decision to let another play the game in his place. Cooler heads prevail and Frey’s seems to be downright icy.

“Sansa Stark is his sister, that is true,” Tywin finally says. There’s only so much wiggle room he has. The point of this feast is _to avoid_ being beheaded.

Frey continues to sew for quite some time and Tywin grits his teeth knowing there is nothing he can do. Finally, she puts it down. “Is?”

“She is my good-daughter.” Tywin smirks and outraged silence follows his announcement.

“Tyrion Lannister,” Frey says placidly.

“Indeed,” Tywin confirms.

“And when did this wedding take place?” Stark asks and… He’s right to do it. The game was won; the victory is theirs. Now, he can interrupt as it suits without making Frey lose face.

“Not that long ago,” Tywin says and decides to press on a sore spot. “Two sisters, but one’s a Lannister.”

To Tywin’s surprise—as it _forever_ is with the boy—Stark clenches his fists and bows out of the conversation. He knows he’s too emotional and though other men might see it as a weakness, Tywin sees it as a strength. Why take part and lose, when there’s a much better alternative?

“And Arya Stark,” Frey says serenely.

“We have no idea where she is.” Tywin throws his words like daggers, but they—don’t—land. With Frey, at least, they clearly do with everybody else. But Frey is in charge of negotiations and as long as Stark doesn’t disagree, neither will the Lords with him. And he won’t because he understands that. “She has been lost around the time of her Lord Father’s, _the traitor’s_ , arrest.”

A shift. Somebody broke ranks: Catelyn Starks. Of course. She doesn’t respect her son since he’ll always be a child in her eyes and _the Queen_ is not her family.

Tywin has found the weak point.

“You will give me command of your troops,” Stark begins and Tywin realizes that this is it. “You will arrange for my sister to visit this _beautiful and wildly interesting_ castle _._ You will then take the Black. You—”

“What about your good-brother?” Tywin twists the knife. “Is she to travel alone?”

Stark dismisses with a wave of his hand. “He can come too. Ten guards should be enough.”

“Of course,” Tywin says with a smirk.

“You will post a reward for my sister retu—No,” Stark corrects himself for the first time. “I’ll do that. I will post a reward for my sister’s return. I will use the money made out selling this table, these chairs, the cutlery on the table, and your cloak.”

“But, _Your Grace_ , I’ll freeze,” Tywin says innocently.

“Keep the cloak, then!” Stark thunders and doesn’t let Frey take the lead this time. “Give me your cupbearer.”

Tywin tenses. “And what use have you of a cupbearer?”

“None of your concern,” Stark answers.

His mother stirs. Frey’s face is blank. And Tywin, though he’s overly fond of the girl, sees an opportunity.

“As you wish, _Your Grace_.” Tywin nods to the girl. His next words slip out despite his intention, “The child is of the North, I assume there’s reason to believe you still have honor.” Thankfully, his tone is mocking.

Stark smirks and beckons the girl. He reaches an arm around her and brings her to him. “The child is a girl,” is all he says and leans close to whisper something in her ear. She bows her head.

Frey’s face is a study in blankness and Tywin looks around. These are people from the North, surely, somebody will say something. And indeed, many Lords avoid his eyes, but none talk. There isn’t a person who will contradict the Young Wolf.

“Robb,” Lady Stark finally says. To Tywin shock, this isn’t what he expects either. “He must pay for Arya. My daughter is almost certainly dead. The other is married to the Imp. Your _father_ is dead. We have become a joke. No more.”

There are a few Lords who agree.

Stark gives his mother a long look and doesn’t say anything. This is where Tywin’s nephew would remind them once more that he’s king, but that’s not what Stark does. He holds her eyes until she screams.

“Damn you!” Lady Stark has her fingers clenched on her dress. “My precious girls! Your father!” She’s furious past eloquence.

That’s when Frey observes coldly, “Lady Stark is tired.”

It’s followed by a pause in which everyone freezes. Tywin supposes they do not know what to do. Finally, four men come around Lady Stark. She opposes, fights them really, but she’s no match for them. Her screams echo through the quiet camp.

“Swear it,” Stark orders.

Looking in a pair of icy eyes, Tywin realizes that he must. He will avenge himself. He will even avenge the girl. But to do that, he must swear, so he does.

Once they are done, Stark kisses the girl on the forehead. It makes her duck her head and the Lords avert their eyes. Stark doesn’t seem to care. He raises and, with him, a mountain of a wolf—his direwolf—raises on his left.

“My King,” a Lady—Mormont, by the coat of arms—finally says. “The girl…”

Stark smiles widely. “You don’t recognize my sister, do you?”

His _what_? No. It cannot be. Stark’s is _mad, mad_ like the Aerys.

“My apologies. I don’t, my King.” Lady Mormont bows. “A-are you sure?”

“Of course, he’s sure!” the girl exclaims, annoyed. “I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

“I meant no offense,” Lady Mormont apologizes hurriedly.

“Grey Wind recognizes her, he recognized her since she came forward,” Stark says, amused and joyful. “And my mother will too, once she’s feeling better.” He exchanges another look with Frey, who smiles slightly and inclines her head in a nod. She knew. She must have realized it when her eyes widened. “Anger and revenge have blinded her,” Stark says, sadly this time.

Arya Stark turns back to Tywin and offers a smirk. He chuckles before he even knows what he’s doing. _Well played, girl._

*

When Tywin sees the Others coming, up on Winterfell’s wall, dressed in black but at the command of his own men, he spares a moment to think, “Damn the Starks, they were right all along!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you want to comment (or just talk to me) you can do it here or on my [tumblr](http://e-alexandrescu.tumblr.com/).


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